Love Song

i’m puffing cigarettes towards an unsympathetic ceiling. It has seen this too many times. It is tired of the songs I play on repeat, and so am I, but I need them. Because I can’t really put this into words. Who’s outside? Someone’s outside. We may or may not have had a conversation. Does it matter? I’m stacking up empty bottles. I’m fairly proud of myself. I’m living the dream. I remember nothing.
I will get you out of my head. I will replace you with vague memories and angry poetry. I will replace you with one-night-stands. I will replace you with the superficiality I boast but don’t really believe in. I would replace you with anything, but you are hard to replace.
You are the sadness in my songs. You are the light at the end. You are the reason behind everything.
You are the bane of my life, I realise, and I should not drink gin. Maybe you are a disease. Maybe you are a lover. Maybe you are a bad habit. But I know you are the reason I spend days shrouded in blankets and I might have cried, I don’t know. And I might have died. And I wish that I was dead.
I’m scrawling song lyrics on post-it notes. Tomorrow I will cringe at my fickle, stupid heart. Tomorrow I will replace all food with alcohol and I will write miserable poetry. Tomorrow will not be remembered the next day. Dear God. Dead God? I am on the brink. I am a cliché. My housemates are making too much noise and I am drowning them out. My eyes are funny and I should go to bed. No. A quitter’s choice.